


Stupid Slut

by princePabloRamirez



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Delusions, F/F, Genderbending, I still think I should have added more birds, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mild Gore, Murder intents, Shirabu drinks a little, Shirabu is definitely not ok, lots of bird, more birds, they're all gals but they kept their canon first name we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23084869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princePabloRamirez/pseuds/princePabloRamirez
Summary: It's lonely and cold down here.She hates everything, she hates everyone. She made mistakes in the past, they all did, but it's still haunting her. It won't leave, it will never leave. It's part of her now. She can live bearing the memories, she'll survive anyway.Oh, what a dismal little world. Only Yuuji can crush her, even if there's nothing left to annihilate.Shirabu is striking up her swansong.
Relationships: Shirabu Kenjirou/Terushima Yuuji
Kudos: 3





	Stupid Slut

Stupid slut.

Yuuji is kneeling in front of the bathtub, rubbing the soap against the stain on her jean, humming under her breath. She’s been here for a while, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing, but the dark spot is still here. Her hands are probably all pruney by now.

“That’s what you get for being so careless.”

Stupid slut. Can’t keep clean, ruined one of the only decent pants she has, one that’s not ripped at the knees. It looks like period blood, dark, thick and smelly. The jointing compound between the tiles on the wall has the same color of dried-up blood. Everything is either that dark reddish-brown or piss yellow these days, no matter how much they scrub. Sometimes she scours the tiles so hard it leaves her hands bleeding.

Kenjirou can’t see Yuuji’s face, stupid face, but she doesn’t sound upset when she answers her. She never sounds upset no matter how rude she is and that may be a bit infuriating.

“You weren’t so agitated when it was my favorite top. What’s different now?”

“It was and still is an ugly shirt. I should throw it out.” 

Yuuji chuckles, rinses the jeans. She opens the washing machine and throws it in there, putting a load on. They stay here for a while, watching the pants turning round in silence. Stupid pants, Yuuji should just stop putting them on altogether.

Kenjirou voices her thoughts, tone commanding, and she obeys, takes her sweatpants off. It’s disgusting how pleased she looks, how happy she is to sit on the bathroom floor with only her underwear on. Stupid, stupid slut. She likes this way too much. Whatever Kenjirou orders, it never seems like she’s the one truly in command. It pisses her off. 

Kenjirou wants to break her fingers, they’ll see if it’s still so funny afterward.

By the time they reach the living room Yuuji is naked. Picture of a fleshy goddess, flaxen hair and amber eyes. She sits on the sofa, legs spread wide open, looking at her with a smile that’s far from being innocent. It’s completely manic, mean but in a sweet, tender way. She looks screwed in the head with that look on her face. Kenjirou can concede that they’re both a bit insane. Everyone is. 

Was she already like that before? She can’t seem to exactly recall. Maybe it’s the repetitive pattern of the yellowing wallpaper that’s starting to drive her crazy. 

She already tried tearing it off the wall, but it’s just the cement under. Gray.

They both sit on the sofa, watching the tv, which is really just as boring as watching the washing machine running. It hasn’t been working for a while and they should buy a new one, but they don’t have the money for it. They don’t have the money for anything but cheap nasty sake and things they don’t really need.

She has meat to skin, meat to bone. It’s been waiting for her on the counter for a while. She’s sure it can wait a bit more. There’s no such thing as spoiled food down here, just meat that’s a little too high, fruits a little too ripe, and Kenjirou would hate to feed the strays prowling around by throwing perfectly comestible food out. The more they eat, the worse they get. 

She knows Yuuji’s feeding them. Kenjirou’s not stopping her. There’s no use, she would do it in her back. Somedays the albino one will get so big, so hungry, it won’t want just the crumbs anymore and will devour Yuuji, stuff its face with her guts. Kenjirou’ll drink to that.

They both sit on the sofa and it’s a Tuesday night like every other Tuesday night. 

“We should go out sometimes. It’s been a while.”

“Did you already forgot that we just went out to get meat?”

“No,” Yuuji’s looking at her now, her eyes shiny with something bad, something terribly bad. “I mean up.”

Kenjirou’s standing before the blonde is done talking, turning around, getting away from her and her delirium. Towards the kitchen. 

She has meat to chop. 

It’s still here, on the countertop, didn’t move one bit from where she left it. Maybe Yuuji could also do something for once instead of being a useless dumb slut. Can’t do anything, keeps on talking about stupid things. The knife is big and sharp, a nice weight in her hand. Yuuji should really just shut the fuck up. 

There’s a chuckle behind her, just against the back of her neck. She holds the handle tighter. 

“Afraid of the sun baby? That’s why you don’t want to go?”

There’s no use trying to reason with Yuuji anymore. She used to be smart at some point, before the incident, but now she’s just as stupid as it can get. Everyone’s fucking brain dead down here. No wonder nothing’s getting better.

Yuuji is groping her breast with one hand and with the other one, she’s holding her right wrist.

“Stop that.” Kenjirou tries to free her hand, pulling hard, and she’s released but it’s only so that Yuuji can press her fingers against a nerve in her forearm, a mean nerve that makes her cringe and stop struggling. She’s barely holding the knife at this point.

“Maybe you’ll get blind from the sun, but I’ll take good care of you, I swear. You’ll see, it will be real nice and fun just the two of us, nobody to interfere. Isn’t that what you always wanted?” She’s kissing the nape of her neck, lick and kiss and bite in the sweetest way. She releases her arm and Kenjirou stays still, let her press her whole palm against her crotch, rub the heel of her hand against her. It feels good but it’s not enough. “What would you do anyway if I were to leave you on your own, hmm? It’s like a cage here. The others would probably love to burn alive a poor thing like you once I’d be gone, wouldn’t they? We just can’t split up baby.”

Yuuji is a mean bitch, still chuckling as she opens her trousers. Kenjirou rests against her, no knife in hand, caressing her forearm. 

“If I’m going up you’re coming too, Kenjirou.”

It’s impossible not to moan, not with fingers pressing against her clit, not when it feels so nice being held like she is. Yuuji may not be as quick and bright as she was before, but she is still always infuriatingly right, almost as if to mock her.

They’re sticking together, forever. Whatever if it kills them.

It’s easy finding Yuuji’s lips, it’s easy pressing her mouth against hers. At first, it’s just a brush of lips, brief and tender, but it quickly grows into something more risqué, open-mouthed kisses and spit. Tasting that nasty shredded tongue was awful at first, but it feels so hot now, so good, especially when she remembers how she was squirming on the ground, blood pouring out of her mouth. It makes her so wet, the memory of bright red blood and gross tears, the mean sound of meat being torn apart, Yuuji gasping pathetically around the fingers in her mouth. Kenjirou kisses her until she’s panting against her mouth, melting in her arms. 

It’s starting to reek of blood, heavy on the tongue.

Stupid slut, knows where to touch to make her tense and whimper, whine like she’s her bitch. She just has to rub her clit and her brain turns to mush, make her crave for nothing but an orgasm. Kenjirou feels so fucking stupid, just want those sweet fingers all over her, feeling and touching as much as she wants if it brings her to completion. It’s coming like the tide, slowly overtaking her, eyes rolling back in her skull, and Yuuji keeps on jerking her off until it’s too much, too much. Kenjirou elbows her gently, way gentler than usual, just to dislodge her, and it makes Yuuji chuckle but she stops. Her arms snake easily around her midriff to hug her as Kenjirou puts more weight onto her, head heavy against her shoulder.

“Did you mellow out yet babe?”

“Hmm.”

“Just after one, really? And who’s going to take care of me then? Always so mean Kenjirou.” There’s still a lilt to her voice and she’s kissing her temple, holding her as tight as can be without it being really painful. Kenjirou feels so warm, so infernally warm deep in her chest. “Let’s get to bed, we deserve a long night of sleep.”

Kenjirou can agree, even if she lost track of how late it was a while ago. Maybe it’s still fairly early, but she feels so relaxed, so good, it would be a shame to just not take the opportunity to lay down in bed, close to one another.

She likes the bedroom, red wallpaper and soil on the ground, the atmosphere damp. 

Their bed. 

She falls on the mattress heavily, sighing. Yuuji helps her undress and she just has to lift lazily her hips, letting her do everything. She feels exhausted, so tired, and there’s nothing like the safety of curling up against Yuuji, eyes closed. She hates how vulnerable she is, sparrow in her arms, but it’s soon an afterthought when she’s already surrendering to sleep.

Kenjirou doesn’t dream. 

Every time she wakes it feels the same — body heavy, limbs stiff, mind numb. It’s almost like she drank before going to bed yesterday, but she’s pretty sure she didn’t. She does not want to wake up yet, wants to stay deep in her slumber, but it’s late, so late already. Yuuji has left the bed, the house is silent. She’s all alone. 

There used to be a clock on the wall, right in front of the bed, but it’s not here anymore. She remembers faintly Yuuji picking up all the clocks in the house and smashing them on the carpeted floor of the living room. Glass shards, glass shards, her knees were bleeding.

The rest of the house reeks of blood. Dead meat. 

It makes her throat itch, breath in, breath out. It’s still such a nice smell, such a mean, mean smell. There’s something a bit evil, something a bit wrong about this delightful smell. It’s nostalgic. There are colors behind her eyelids when she closes her eyes, things that shouldn’t be there, things that belong to the past. That she can tell. It’s just her in the house, just her, and she doesn’t need to open her eyes to see where she’s going. The kitchen. 

She’s not done here yet. The meat is on the counter. It’s waiting. It’s been waiting for so long and it smells off, but she can’t help it. Can’t help her hands reaching and taking, stuffing her face with cold red meat. Blood dripping on her face, it feels like heaven. No matter how much one is purified, they can never stray far from what they used to love. 

Her jaw can’t quite open just as much as she wants it to. It’s not enough. 

They were supposed to keep it for later, eat it together, but Kenjirou is hungry in a way that can’t be satiated and there’s a sense of completion nothing but meat on her tongue brings. If Yuuji wanted some too she should have stayed in. It’s all her fault, always all her fault. Stupid slut.

It’s her meat. Her meat, flesh and sinews, muscles and bones. 

She’s not hungry anymore, but there’s nothing else to do here, so she keeps on eating. It was like that before too. The air is so damp, water is beading at the corner of her eyes. Her cheeks are wet. Yuuji’s never there when she’s needed. What would she do anyway? Take the meat away from her? Try comforting her? It’s never too late to disfigure Yuuji.

They should have cut her fingers, render her helpless, cut her fingers instead of her hair, that’s what they should have done. Her talons are dulled, but it wouldn’t take much do get them nice and sharp again. Slices Yuuji’s face up, gashes her pretty nose, splits her eyelids. She’s sure she would laugh at that, even if Kenjirou was to shred her abdomen, cut deep into her flesh. Maybe for once it would be her turn to laugh, hysterical, covered in blood and guts.

A big red harpy. 

They stop eating. There’s still some meat left, but they ate most of it. Kenjirou should clean the kitchen. She doesn’t have bleach, just soapy water and there’s no way it’ll wash away the stains on the counter. At least it should suppress the iron smell. 

She stands there for a bit, looking at the mess they made. She’s going to clean. She keeps on looking.

There’s someone knocking on the door. 

Kenjirou can’t tell how long she’s been standing here, but she figures it must have been bad. She needs a full minute to remember where she is, blinking. There had been nothing for a while, thick red fog on her mind and the faint memory of long, slender fingers on her face. She’s still feeling them but she’s all alone here. It’s getting serious.

She doesn’t have to peak through the peephole, to ask, there’s only her to visit. Only, only her. Kenjirou doesn’t understand why she keeps on coming here. 

They’re a small community, no grudge can be held here, whatever has happened before. Personal vendetta and personal vendetta, there would be nothing left of them. But as much as they need forgiveness, she doesn’t have to come here.

Maybe she’s just coming to make sure she hasn’t skinned alive Yuuji during the night. Precious, beloved Terushima Yuuji, capable of no harm.

Akaashi Keiji is just as insufferable and stupid as the others.

She’s always so polite, bows and inquires whether she’s bothering her. It’s not like Kenjirou was really doing anything, spacing out in her kitchen after eating raw meat. She doesn’t need to know about that. Nobody needs to. Akaashi takes off her shoes, her coat, bows again.

The skin of her hands is thin like paper, so fine it probably can be torn easily. Mean shades of pink on her fingers, on her palms, on her forearms. It definitely healed, it’s just scar tissue, but it still looks painful. Who did that to her again?

You can never be too sure with Akaashi, maybe she did that to herself without anybody’s help. 

She sits on the sofa, those hands crossed on her tights, and Kenjirou is looking more at them than she is listening. It’s not her fault if her voice is too monotone, too boring. Who the fuck pay any attention to what Akaashi has to say? It’s always the same broken record.

She shuts up at one point, looks at her. It’s that stupid look, those eyes full of cold pity.

“You shouldn’t stay in all day. It’s no good Shirabu.”

That’s really none of her business. She does go outside sometimes, just not when there are people around. The others don’t like her much and the feeling’s mutual. What if she hadn’t left the house in two months before yesterday? That’s really none of her business.

At some point, she used to visit Taichi frequently, at least twice a week, but she stopped after she went insane. It’s not Taichi anymore. Can’t be. It’s just wearing her skin and pretending with those dead, empty eyes to be her. It’s not fooling anyone. 

It feels so fucking lonely down here.

“You should come Monday at least.”

“What’s happening on Monday?”

Her facial expressions never change much, but Kenjirou can see the perplexity in the way her eyebrows slightly raise. 

“Did you forget Miya-san’s exclusion was coming to its end? There’s a new ostracism procedure on Monday.”

Already? She’s sure that that very last Monday she was writing her name on that stupid little piece of paper, crossing her fingers. One year couldn’t have flown by like that. 

If it really did, she hopes Monday they will discover that Miya went feral just like Suna or smashed her head on a big rock. Slippery, big rocks, there are so many of them around here. A trillion chances of slipping and spilling brain matter all over the ground.

There’s a hand on her head. Kenjirou-chan should let her trepan her pretty, tiny butcher bird’s skull. Lobotomize her, sew it back together. She’ll be so much better afterward, she’ll see. She’s so small, so fragile, it would be so easy to drill into her hollow bones. It’s why it always fails on the others, their bones are too dense.

“Are you feeling fine? You seem to zone out a lot recently.”

The wallpaper is yellow. Akaashi is sitting on the couch. Kenjirou is standing in the corner and her bladder hurts. She hasn’t drank anything in a while.

“Yuuji wants to go up.” Stupid slut, ain’t there and still too present. Kenjirou thinks about drowning her in the bathtub, claws around her neck. They’ll see if she still wants to leave with water in her lungs. She dreams of suffocating her with a pillow and she’s wetting the mattress.

“And what about you?”

It’s asked like a real question, like there could be any hesitation, and Akaashi is waiting patiently for an answer. Her eyes are on her, directly. She hates those black eyes, hates her face. Nothing feels honest about it. 

Yahaba hears everything, knows everything. Kenjirou has seen how pliant, how nice and tenderly devoted Akaashi is around her. She’ll murmur in her ear everything she did, everything she said. 

Everything is a trap and a way to fuck her over eventually. She can’t trust anybody.

Anybody but Yuuji.

“That’s a terrible idea.” Akaashi seems to like the answer, a contented smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Maybe she won’t tell Yahaba, maybe she won’t. It’s far from being Yuuji’s first whim, she’s used to it. She won’t pay attention. 

“You should also convince Terushima of it; I’m sure she’ll listen to you.” She doesn’t know anything about it, doesn’t understand anything at all. There’s no convincing to be done. 

Kenjirou wants her gone. Now.

There’s already blood on her hands, no one is too strong for her. She’s not weak, she’s not weak, she’s not weak. She’ll murder them all if she needs too. If it means that she can be all alone with Yuuji. A world just for the two of them, no one interfering.

Everyone that ever meant anything to her is either dead or went insane. 

Akaashi stands up. She says something and it’s on that monotone tone of voice, but she looks somewhat defeated. In a stupid, absurd way. Kenjirou can’t figure out why. It’s fuzzy, she’s more focused on her hands slipping in and out of their flesh, on the way she crackles out of her skin than on the rest of the room; somehow, Akaashi left and she’s on her own. 

She‘s standing in the middle of the living room, all alone, and the pattern on the wallpaper is circle dancing.

She’s pissing herself.

It’s trickling along her tights and her legs, soaking her pants, and it keeps going, never-ending. Feels good. So good, her eyes are rolling back into her skull. She’s so excited. Kneels and fingers herself, presses her fingers so deep inside she cries out. It wouldn’t be nice at all, just uncomfortable and distressing. It’s too many fingers at once and she’s so tight, abnormally tight. Pathetic little chick sobbing on the carpet because it hurts, because she doesn’t want to have sex right now.

The warm flow stopped at some point; she’s cold now. Her hands are twitching at her side and she aches for long clawed fingers, sharp talons. 

It smells like blood.

Kenjirou is back in the bathroom.

The bath is running and the mirror is already fogging. She can’t see herself.

There’s blood on her underwear, on her pants. She throws it in the drum of the washing machine. 

She took a shower already but she still feels dirty. The filth is still here, clinging under her flesh. Sometimes she scours so hard it lefts her skin bleeding. Nonetheless, it’s still intact, devoid of any mark, any blemish. She heals quickly, too quickly, too nicely. Kenjirou is the only one that hasn’t been scarred yet. 

Even her right arm has healed nicely, the bones back in place. It looks perfect on the outside, skin smooth, no one could tell. She’s never been here for Yuuji, but here she was, bathed in divine light, shiny pearly white teeth and eyes of burning amber. Her holy beauty looked surreal, halo of fire, a great epiphany transcending pain, transcending that iron feeling that should have overtaken everything else. Yuuji said something stupid, stupid but oh so sweet, and Kenjirou believes she lost consciousness right after. She’s glad she did, she’s sure looking directly at her for too long would have burned her cornea.

The nerves did not grow back correctly, but tangled and painful, making her pathetically weak, and she can’t even begin to imagine how much worse it would have been without Yuuji. Kenjirou thought foolishly that nothing would ever inspire in her a terror quite as raw and primal as She did, but it was before the Miyas. 

There is something about Miya Atsumu, about her face, about that mouth, something that is not human. Something ancient and profoundly evil. Something innately hungry that will never find satisfaction. 

She said she was done playing nice and Shirabu can’t picture what is nice about sawing legs, sawing heads. They just had time for smashing the bones to pieces.

Yuuji says that Miya Osamu is just as terrible, just as hungry. 

The water is boiling hot and threaten to spill once she’s fully settled in the bathtub. The house is silent, she’s all alone. She’s always alone.

Was it that lonely before?

They never were much to begin with, but it wasn’t that lonely back then. Maybe she decided to ignore it and it always was. She can’t tell the truth apart from what she actively tried to deny anymore. There are still all those people living in those big cities, living like they all used to. Something went wrong with them at some point surely. It’s too late to do anything about it.

Kenjirou turns around, lays on her stomach. Yuuji’s hair products are lined up on the rim of the tub. There are so many bottles, so many weird names and brands, she’s not sure what most of them are used for. Yuuji’s things are all over the bathroom, on the sink, in the drawers, on top of shelves. Expired makeup, flat iron, hair ties and clips and headbands. Her hair is long, so long, it stops being nice pulling on so much length. There’s too much for it to be held well with one hand, she can only yank on a few strands at a time, never the whole thing. Kenjirou hates it. Every once in a while she wanders around the house, scissors in hand, head spinning, and fantasizes about cutting it short without ever acting on it. It would be so erotic to tie her down and abuse a bit of her, snip and snip and snip until she can correctly grab on to her hair. She would look so pretty, so helpless, it makes Kenjirou so wet when she thinks about it. 

That haircut was the most humiliating thing she ever felt. There are too many eyes on her, the talons petting her scalp are gone. She endured it well, it won’t kill Yuuji either. Oh, she would do it well, she would be nice. Kenjirou doesn’t need to have experienced it to know about benevolence.

There’s always a moment when she comes down from her high. She can’t forget that big hand in Yuuji’s hair, pulling hard; the last thing preventing her from collapsing. Her hair was shorter back then. That can’t happen again. 

Nobody can touch Terushima Yuuji but her.

She turns around, back on her back. She’s been in the bath for a few seconds, but the water’s already lukewarm. Her fingers lost all of their colors. She’s cold. It’s so cold down here. Cold and damp and lonely. When is that stupid slut coming back?

Maybe she should wait for her here and maybe when she will finally be back, Kenjirou will have completely dissolved. Yuuji would bathe in that water, glorious naked undine, skin glistening. Water running down her full breasts would make her large, dark nipples harden. She’s such a disgusting slut, always horny, she would certainly rub her pretty fingers against her clit and mewl lovingly while fingering herself. 

She stands up. The bath has overflowed, the rug is soaked. 

Kenjirou ends up standing in front of the wardrobe. There’s that dress she hasn’t worn in a while. It’s her only dress. The padding makes her chest look bigger, her hips not as narrow. It’s her head on someone else’s body. The more she looks the less it’s herself looking back. 

She knows it’s not herself, there is no sticker on that girl in the mirror. 

There are hands on this waist.

“You look really hot with that on. Wanna take it off?” 

Fingers are crawling under her skirt, lifting it up high. She moves away, closer to the other magpie, and it’s just a footstep between them, yet Yuuji is already too far away. She doesn’t remember telling her to stop touching her thighs. 

If she focuses on it well she can still feel her hands. “I’m thirsty.”

Kenjirou just has to lay down on the bed, let herself fall, and extend her arm to reach the bottle. All the glasses are in the kitchen. It’s fine, she can drink straight from the bottle. Pop goes the cap. It’s fine, she can drink everything that’s in the bottle. It’s burning her throat, but it’s a nice burn, the same one Yuuji’s hands against her breasts ignite. 

She drinks more. 

She should keep more bottles by the nightstand, they never know.

Yuuji takes the bottle away from her and she drank so little yet. Maybe she doesn’t quite realize for now that nothing is stopping her from stabbing her. Repeatedly. Until she begs for forgiveness. 

Kill Yuuji and then kill herself.

“I just came back and you’re already drinking? Do you do anything else of your day babe?” It’s the same demeaning tone every time. That sweet, unsympathetic smile. The liquid is swinging in the bottle, smashing against the glass. Oh they both know Kenjirou can’t do anything. She can keep telling herself everything she wants; it’s just in her mind, it has no impact on the real, tangible world. It has no impact on Yuuji.

“Fuck you. Give it back.” 

She’s bringing the neck of the bottle to her lips, her full, pink lips. Kenjirou dreams of being the clear liquid filling her mouth, flowing down her chin, drenching that top that hugs her chest so well. Why does that stupid slut need clothes that tight to go out? There are too many people outside, too many people who would gladly touch Yuuji, who would grope and fuck her. It doesn’t matter if she’s not into it, they’re stronger than her.

Maybe she’s lying to herself and Yuuji loves it, adores being the center of the attention and spreading her thighs. 

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, giggling warmly before taking another swig. She doesn’t drink much usually and here she is, running a hand through her hair and downing her bottle. “Fuck, it hits so hard…” She’s dragging on the words, licking her lips. “I’m not going to be able to finish it.” Kenjirou believes foolishly for a second that it means she’s getting it back, but it’s before Yuuji starts pouring what’s left of the drink on her shirt, soaking it up completely. She does not stop until the fabric is so saturated with liquid that it drips on the floor. It’s so sheer she can see her bra, gorgeous black lace stretched over her large breasts.

The glass shatters on the floor and Yuuji is barefoot. She’s so pretty when she kneels, hands back on her thighs, sliding from her knees up to her pelvis, looking at her with those burning eyes. The air in the bedroom is sultry, she can’t breathe. 

“Wanna lick the liquor off my tits baby?”

Kenjirou is waiting on the couch. 

Yuuji is showering, pampering herself. She doesn’t want to think too much about why she’s dressing up for that kind of outing. If it was up to her they just wouldn’t go, if it was up to her they would never leave the house. She drinks more from her glass.

There’s a picture in the pocket of her coat. A small picture, folded three times. It’s old, it’s the only thing she still has from up there. She doesn’t need to take it out, holding it preciously between her fingers is enough. She knows it by heart by now. Yuuji is the most lovely like that, not quite fully developed yet, long black hair and sun-kissed skin. Her chest, beloved flat chest, is the prettiest of pink, same delicious pink that’s between her legs. They didn’t know each other back then and it’s so easy to imagine that this version of Yuuji, this blessed, delightful version of Yuuji, is everything that she isn’t today, that she is perfect in the most outrageous way.

Sometimes she wonders at what point a delicate nymphet like her turned into a vile slut like Terushima Yuuji. She likes to think that ethereal creatures can only be altered for the worse when buried nine miles under.

“Are you ready?” Here she is, finally, standing in the doorway, that cocky smile on her face. She’s gorgeous, bright damask silk and white fur collar. Kenjirou used to help her dress up, layer after layer of heavy gold woven fabric. She does it all alone now. “I’ve been waiting for you for an hour.” “Then we’re going!”

She opens the door, wide, like it’s something so easy to do. Crossing the threshold still feels like trespassing on a world where she’s not welcome, a world that’s not hers anymore. Maybe it never was, maybe it was always meant for someone else. It doesn’t matter, she’ll never know now.

When Kenjirou finally passes, Yuuji is already far up ahead; she can’t hear the clatter against the stone ground anymore.

There are all those birdcages suspended in front of the door, bird bones and rusted bars. She was there when Yuuji caged the small serins, chuckling lovingly, chirping with that lisp her shredded tongue had left her with. If someday the birds were to die it would be some grand omen, some indication that they should leave before dying themselves. It’s a faint memory; she’s leaning against the doorway, one arm free, one arm strapped. Her hair has been cut so short she looks like someone else altogether. It’s around that time she stopped looking at herself in the mirror, to avoid that puny skylark looking back at her. Old habits die hard.

She remembers hearing the birds tinkle and peal every time someone would come near.

One morning, one of the cages had been thrown on the ground and ripped open. The strays had eaten one of the birds and they hadn’t heard anything.

After her accident, Yuuji stopped feeding the serins. They all died eventually and nothing happened to either of them. Maybe she never was as clever as she likes to pretend.

Kenjirou closes the door. Hopefully, in less than an hour she will be back. There’s not much walk from here to the hall but it doesn’t mean she wants to be there early. She would love not having to take part in this, not having anything to do with it. She hates going there, not the ostracism procedure in itself. It’s Yahaba’s territory, the hall and the village, she has all control there and Kenjirou has so little power.

It wasn’t meant to be like that.

Sometimes she dreams of the wake, vultures tearing apart the skin, face first in the mess of guts and organs. She was the only one standing there, only one looking. What if back in the Sepulchre she had had a taste of the divine flesh? At the time it felt like it was feasting on the dead that was sacrilegious, but maybe it truly was not doing it that caused her to be so miserable. Wherever is the vulture chick, she’s probably happier than Kenjirou is.

Somewhere along the way, more and more troglodytic houses come within view. They’re all void. It’s just a sculpted facade for empty rooms. What lived here? What carved it out? It’s best not to look too much inside. 

Akaashi is right there, outside the hall, and she does not want to acknowledge her, but what she wants never had any weight.

“I’m glad you came.” “Yuuji wanted to.” It’s back, that faintest of smiles and the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. “Did you talk to her?” “Yes.” It doesn’t matter if it’s a lie.

She gets inside, Akaashi on her heels. Everyone is already there, yet Yuuji is not anywhere to see. 

It’s always been the same seat for all those years and Kenjirou has the displeasure to sit right across Yahaba, mighty and imperious Yahaba. She’s drunk with power, the stance of a queen in the midst of her court. It’s so absurd with how deformed the right side of her face is. It looks somewhat burned and somewhat mangled. She’s a vain flower standing under UV lamps, half of her petals withering.

It’s too bad, she was pretty before. Oikawa really did not go easy on her. She does not remember what terrible fault she committed to deserve to be that badly disfigured, but it probably was justified. Oikawa had always been cruel, yet not as wicked as She or the Miyas were. She was softer and tender than they could ever dream to be, like a strict but loving mother. She probably held Yahaba gently afterward, petted her hair softly and assured her that it was going to be fine if she went back to her place like the docile girl she is. 

Kenjirou is sure she would have never disappointed her like that, she would have been so much more deserving of that tenderness. Oikawa wasn’t gratuitously mean with them, the goal never was to destroy them aimlessly. Taichi's delicate mouth is dripping blood, her pretty nose is all messed up, and She's cackling happily. Poor robins, poor robins, it’s only more red to their feathers.

Yahaba smiles at her, a bright, candid smile. “How is Terushima doing?” “She’s fine. What about Futakuchi?” Her smile does not fade, but it’s suddenly more bitter, meaner. She’s pissed off but can still somewhat keep this pretense of composure. What happened to strangling people rubbing her the wrong way?

Futakuchi has been a sensitive subject for a while now. 

She’s been confined to her bed for as long as she can remember. It’s hard now trying to wrap her mind around the fact that she used to be one of the most loathsome here, that so many would have loved to rip her vocal cords out. She’s the shadow of who she used to be. Who would have known that slipping thumbs in eyes sockets, gouging out soft, wet orbs, pulling on fragile nerves would damage someone so much mentally? She became some sort of withdrawn fearful creature with atrophied muscles, hidden behind the tall walls of the town hall. 

It’s a harvest mouse sleeping in a nest of thorns. Yahaba is taking care of her now that there’s no one to pull them away, not even Futakuchi.

“She’s doing great.” Her voice is cold, her eyes just as much, but her smile is still friendly. She got to learn that from the best, but there was a class to Oikawa that trash like her can only poorly mimic. “It’s rare that a selfish whore like you would care, but I guess every year there’s some improvement.” Watari is giggling, hand covering her mouth as if to hide her laughter. It’s not like Kenjirou can do anything; she already tried, even spitting in their face is already too much of an offense and there’s no one anymore to deter them from beating her face to a pulp.

Oh, can’t Miya be there already?

It had been delightful to discover that Suna had turned into some kind of rabid vulpine beast, eyes devoid of any humanity ㅡnot that there ever was much to begin with; but as enjoyable as it was, it took them ten hours too long to discover it. She does not have much patience anymore. 

It’s Yuuji’s imaginary arms hugging her from behind, puffs of cold air brushing against her ear as she laughs silently. Her voice so low it’s just a sigh. “Babe, you never calm down, what patience are you talking about?” 

Where did she go?

It’s been ten minutes already when the door finally opens. It’s been a year since anyone has seen or interacted with Miya Osamu, since she’s had any access to the most basic of comfort, yet here she is, still in good health. Her hair is back to black, longer than what she has ever seen it be. She does not seat down, she slumps down heavily, every eye on her except her sister’s. Kenjirou hopes for her she’s ready to play the circus freak for a while. Knowing how irritable they can get, it’s probably not the case. Being the center of attention is tolerable until it’s not useful anymore.

Yahaba claps in her hands to get the attention back on her. She looks delighted. “On this second Monday of January, I officially announce the end of the fifth ostracism and the opening of the sixth one. Without much further ado, let’s proceed to the election of our new victim!”

The quicker they elect someone, anyone, the quicker Kenjirou goes back home.

It’s the same every time; One by one in the booth in the middle of the circle then back to their place. There are fewer and fewer of them, each year the circle is getting smaller. Someday there won’t be anyone left. The strays will die of hunger just like the serins did.

When she leaves the booth, Miya Osamu is not here anymore.

She’s appearing, disappearing, changing forms. It’s not Kenjirou that’s going crazy, she’s sure about that, it’s the Miyas. They’re all wrong. They didn’t come from up there like the rest of them, they came from the well behind the shrine. They’re the curse on this place.

It’s painfully long seeing everyone go in and out of the booth, sitting back in their chair while someone new takes their place behind the curtain. She wrote, in neat letters, impossible to misread, her stupid name. Yahaba Shigeru. If the Miyas are evil enough to not be affected by the ostracism, it’s not her case. It’s so dark outside of the town, she would wilt and die, she would be done for. Everyone else should just vote against Yahaba now, before they’re fewer than her people and can’t get rid of her anymore.

Kyoutani is the last one to go. Of all people, she’s the one that everyone thought would go feral first. She always was rabid to begin with, filled with a primal fury but in a very puerile, simplistic way. Kenjirou wants to know why she doesn’t leave the village, why she keeps on coming to those assemblies when she never seems to enjoy partaking much. It can’t be Yahaba’s desire, she would rather have her muzzled and on a leash than expressing any of that bad, destructive free will. But is it still free will when there’s the continuous threat of being slapped across the face hanging above her head, delicate hands made out of stinging nettles hitting her until she learns her place?

They hate each other, it wouldn’t be surprising if she voted against Yahaba, but with how easily she lets Watari stroke her tights and whisper in her ear, the possibility is feeble.

Yuuji still hasn’t voted, she’s not there, she’s nowhere, they’re already counting the votes.

It’s not Yahaba opening the ballot box, but Kunimi is far from being an impartial and innocent hand. Kindaichi counts the votes. She’s pure in a candid way and twice as much malleable. She was a devoted doll to every command falling from Oikawa’s mouth, there’s no difference with Yahaba. Kenjirou can’t trust them with counting the votes, even if Kunimi shows them each ballot she draws.

The first vote is against Yuuji. The second too. The third too. 

There’s a knot in her throat. 

It’s a different handwriting each time, it’s someone different each time, and they all voted against Yuuji. It can’t be. The fourth too. The fifth too. She’s misreading the ballots, she’s mishearing Kunimi. They can’t vote against Yuuji. They can’t, they can’t. Why would they do that? Why her? Why would Yahaba target her of all people? She’s not allowed to hurt Yuuji to get to her, she’s not allowed to do that over stupid hatred.

Everyone voted against Yuuji. All the ballots have her name on it. There’s no ballot with Yahaba’s name on it. She is smiling, big, bright smile. Oh, she’s thrilled, she’s delighted, it’s the best thing. They don’t do anything, the others, they’re stoic, they’re dead. They don’t care, they don’t care, and that stupid slut isn’t even here. It’s only her and Yahaba with those meat faces, with those scarlet feelings. 

Blood is boiling in her veins.

The closet is dark.

She can’t see anything in here. The clothes brush against her skin. It’s like a soft swallow’s nest, tight and warm and safe.

They’re going to force Yuuji to leave.

It makes her head hurt, it makes her want to puke. Maybe if she hides long enough here, nothing will happen. Put her head in a shoebox and never take it out, stick her head in a spring trap hoping it will break her neck.

The door shakes, heavy wood vibrating.

There’s someone in the bedroom, scraping long nails against the walls. It’s banging against the door, hard. 

Harder. 

HARDER HARDER HARDER 

So hard it’s banging inside her skull too. The lammergeier wants to go in. It’s scratching like crazy on the wood, it wants to claw her face. Her beak is hitting against her skull, harder. There’s blood on her hands, tears on her face. IT WON’T FORGIVE HER. She didn’t want to kill her. That’s not what she wanted. Not now. It’s her fault, it’s all her fault. She pushed Kenjirou to do it. She was forced. She did not want to do it, she did not want to do it, She should have stopped. Now she’s going to be all alone, with stained little hands and nails encrusted with red dirt. 

Soft silk is brushing against her face, caressing her cheeks. Kenjirou holds it dearly, pushes her face against the fabric, sobbing softly. The sleeves fall on her head to keep her close, protecting her.

“Mommy... Mommy…” She whines and the silk falls on her, swathing and cradling her until she’s not whimpering anymore, until she feels just a little numb. It engulfs her, covers her, grounds her. Breath in, breath out. There’s no noise anymore against the door. She’s safe, there’s nothing to fear, she’s safe.

Kenjirou’s all alone in the house. It’s her and a gold fenghuang on red silk.

She creaks the closet door open and the bedroom is as always, carpeted floor and yellow walls, flooded with golden light. Where did you come? Where will you go? She remembers vividly pulling the wallpaper above the headboard. Someone covered it up with old newspapers and painted it yellow. That weird insane yellow.

She doesn’t remember that. 

Her knees hurt when she stands, feeble legs that can’t support her. The kimono is still hugging her, smothering her. There’s glass around the bed, her dried up blood on the carpet. Kenjirou doesn’t feel the pieces embedded in her feet. It’s part of her. The newspapers lift when she scratches with her nails, and once again she’s back to pulling on the wallpaper, face to face with gray cement. It’s coming easily if she scrapes hardly enough against the wall. Her talons are a little dull, crack under the pressure, but she keeps on going. 

She pulled more wallpaper than there was newspapers. She’s face to face with sad, rushed kanjis, head hurting and feeling like bursting. 

Kenjirou hugs the kimono.

No reason of being no reason of being no reason of being no reason of being

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat on my tumblr (https://nykrkoupalki.tumblr.com) if you want to hate with me on the second years!


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